The air was deadly quiet.
Pandy looked around. The sun had gone behind a cloud, and the lake was like a mirror. She remembered how her mother had always told them that the skating mirror under the Christmas tree was a miniature version of this lake.
She leaned forward, put her face in her hands, and began to cry.
* * *
She didn’t know how long she cried, but it was long enough that when she heard the first crack of thunder, she wondered if she had the strength to make it back to the boathouse. The whiteness of the cupola was suddenly in stark contrast to the gray-black clouds that had gathered behind it. Pandy noticed that there was a tinge of green to this now-rumbling mass.
She picked up the paddle and began rowing as a sluice of cold, hard rain blew across the side of the mountain. It was suddenly as dark as night; when she reached the dock, Pandy’s fingers fumbled with the rope until she gave up on tying up the boat. She stood cautiously, her arms outstretched as she attempted to balance on the tippy canoe. She had one foot on the boat and one on the dock when she felt an electric tingling and heard a deafening crack.
And then, just like in a movie, a jagged, bright white bolt of lightning split the boathouse in two. Suddenly she was airborne. She knew she was up in the air because the trees were upside down. And then they weren’t, and she was lying facedown in the muddy grass.
She must have blacked out, because she had the distinct sensation of being in a dream. Or rather, of being in the particularly nasty nightmare that she had all the time: trying to get onto the elevator, but the doors wouldn’t open.
And then, miraculously, her eyes opened, and she knew she was still alive.
She was lying on her stomach halfway up the hill. A spark must have hit the stairs, because now they were burning. Rising onto her hands and knees, she clawed her way up to the top of the hill. It felt like she was climbing the face of a mountain.
When she reached the top, she stood up and looked back. The front of the boathouse was an enormous bonfire; soon the whole thing would go up in flames. Moving as fast as she could, alternating between a brisk walk, a slow jog, and several moments when she had to stop altogether, she realized this fire was the last straw. She couldn’t imagine how much it would cost to rebuild the boathouse. Then she remembered that she was never going to be able to rebuild it, because she’d never again have the money.
The boathouse was gone. And pretty soon, other pieces of Wallis House that coul
dn’t be replaced would go, too…
Enraged, she stumbled into the mudroom. She picked up the phone, but it took her three tries to dial 911.
Finally, someone answered. “What is your emergency?”
“Fire,” Pandy said, hacking as if the inside of her throat had been burned as well.
“What’s the address?”
“One Wallis Road. The…big mansion on top of the mountain,” she choked out. She felt like she was going to black out again.
“Oh. That place. Hold on.”
The operator came back on. “It’s going to take them half an hour to get there. Is everyone okay?”
“Thirty minutes?” The boathouse would be nothing but ash by then. Pandy started to cry.
“Ma’am? Is everyone okay?” the operator repeated. “There isn’t a body burning in there or anything?”
Pandy found she couldn’t speak. Possibly she was going into shock.
“Ma’am?” The operator’s voice was suddenly sharp. “Hello? Is anyone hurt? Was anyone in the boathouse?”
Pandy’s insides squeezed shut as she tried to contain the shaking that was building up in her body like a pending explosion.
“To whom am I speaking?”
Pandy took a deep breath and, managing to stifle her scream, moved in front of the mirror. Her eyes widened in surprise. Her face and body were streaked with black soot and her clothes were in tatters. Her hair was burned off at the roots. Who was she, she wondered wildly. Her eyes landed on the photograph of Hellenor as Peter Pan…
“Ma’am? To whom am I speaking?” the operator demanded.
Pandy opened her mouth and, confused, nearly said, “Peter Pan.” But she knew, somehow, that that wasn’t right, because Peter Pan was actually…“Hellenor Wallis,” she gasped. It was the best she could do.
She let the phone drop from her hand as she heard the operator demanding to know the name of the person who was burning up in the boathouse.